


For the Sake of an Angel

by dreamsofspike



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Serious Injuries, Torture, bastinado
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: "One may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel."- (Doctor Who)Crowley has endured a world of demons, and worse, for the sake ofhisangel. When Aziraphale finds out just how much he's suffered and sacrificed - it changes everything.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 466
Collections: My faves - Good Omens Whump





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Princess_Cocoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Cocoa/gifts).



> Thanks so much to boughofawillowtree, PrincexPhoenix, and Latromi for reading this fic and giving me feedback and encouragement and beta work!! <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Y'all are amazing!!! 
> 
> Content Notice: injuries from the WWII church incident, and other injuries, torture, bastinado (modified)

_ “Lift home?”  _

_ Crowley doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t turn to gauge the expression on Aziraphale’s face - just hopes that he’s following him, and quickly - because all at once, in the absence of the blessed surface beneath his feet, he can more acutely feel the damage it’s done. Every step is a fresh torment, and he can’t exactly leave the angel stranded out here in the middle of a bloody war zone, can he?  _

_ But he  _ has _ to get home.  _

_ Unfortunately, Aziraphale doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. He’s just staring at Crowley as Crowley settles in behind the steering wheel, and he doesn’t start moving at all until Crowley honks the horn, startling him out of whatever daze he’s in. Then all at once, he’s hurrying toward the car, fumbling a bit with the handle before getting in and closing the door.  _

_ It occurs to Crowley through his impatience and frustration and the all-consuming searing fucking  _ agony _ that this is quite possibly the first time Aziraphale’s ever been in an automobile  _ at all _.  _

_ Aziraphale breaks the silence only once the vehicle has started moving - under Crowley’s demonic influence, not due to any actual  _ driving _ on his part, not when the slightest pressure against the sole of his foot feels like fresh, blazing fire. “I must say, Crowley, that - that was a gesture of such kindness.” He’s silent again for a moment before continuing, quiet and earnest, “You must know how much I appreciate…” _

_ “Enough, angel, it’s just a few books,” Crowley snaps, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes for a moment, his breath held instinctively as he tries to suppress the pain.  _

_ It isn’t working. In fact, despite his efforts, the pain is getting worse.  _

_ It feels like it takes forever to get to Aziraphale’s bookshop, where the blasted angel insists on another attempt at thanking him, hesitation in his voice, and mingled warmth and confusion in his eyes.  _

_ “Crowley… my dear, I do thank you… if there’s anything I can do, truly…”  _

_ “You can get out.”  _

_ Crowley doesn’t mean to bark at him, and looks away from the hurt, crestfallen expression on the angel’s face at his words. It’s just that he’s seconds from screaming, and he doesn’t want Aziraphale to know, because if he knows then he’ll worry and fuss and insist on making it A Thing, and Crowley will  _ never _ get home without being reduced to a gibbering mess of raw, agonized nerves.  _

_ He forces himself to inhale a tense, shaky breath, softening his tone with an effort. “Before somebody sees you here,” he clarifies. “Aziraphale, I’m sorry, but we can’t…” _

_ “Oh.” Aziraphale blinks, startled by the reminder - but the hurt fades from his expression as he gives a short, resolute nod. “Oh, yes. Quite right. Good night, Crowley, and again... “ There’s a softness to his tentative smile - a light in his eyes so bright it  _ burns _ , and the pain in Crowley’s damaged feet seems to flare along with it. “...  _ thank you _.”  _

_ Crowley just tips his hat in acknowledgement and says nothing, because by this point he  _ can’t _ speak. He can barely breathe without sobbing, it hurts  _ so much _.  _

_ He allows the Bentley to carry him home, independent of his guidance or assistance.  _

_ He limps inside, clinging to the walls for support, and barely making it past the door of his flat before he collapses to the floor, his knees folded under him. He lifts a shaky hand in a vague waving gesture that closes and locks the door behind him, then slowly turns his hazy gaze with dread toward his shoes. He swallows slowly, wincing at the sharp, stinging pain as he carefully removes them, and the socks beneath them.  _

_ It’s… bad.  _

_ The burns are deep and livid, and have spread further than just the soles that actually  _ touched  _ the consecrated ground of the church. Probably because he remained standing - more or less - on it for as long as he did, there are now ominous streaks extending from the original burns, dark curls of red and black just under the surface of his skin, finally fading to nothing near his ankles. He knows at least it won’t get any  _ worse _ , now - now that he’s no longer in contact with the blessed ground. But it’s already bad enough.  _

_ Far worse than the red sting one might get from walking on the beach in bare feet.  _

_ Crowley reaches gingerly to touch the surface of the singed skin, and draws his fingers back with a pained hiss. He holds his hand just above the injuries instead, focusing his energy and trying to heal them.  _

_ He is unsurprised when it doesn’t work.  _

_ They’re blessed injuries; no demon would be capable of healing them.  _

_ They’ll heal on their own, given time, he’s almost certain - but he doesn’t look forward to the weeks or even months of suffering it’ll take to get there.  _

_ Time for a long nap, he decides, glancing toward his bedroom door with a grimace of resignation.  _

_ He’s glad he’s alone right now, with no witnesses to this rather humiliating display. He knows that as the demon formerly known as Crawly - he’d never live it down.  _

_ He’s barely pulled himself up onto his knees, prepared to shuffle his way awkwardly toward the warm comfort of his bed - when he hears a sharp clicking sound, loud in the stillness of his empty flat, the echo of it running all through him as a sick shiver of ominous anticipation.  _

_ The door he’s just miracled locked... is being miracled unlocked again.  _

_ “There he is,” Hastur sneers, falsely jovial as he strolls into Crowley’s flat as if he’s been invited, as if he’s  _ welcome _ there.  _

_ He very much is not.  _

_ “They sent me to collect you, Crowley.” Hastur’s grin fades into something darker, and touched with grim, malicious satisfaction. “They’ve got a few questions.”  _

_ “Can’t it wait?” Crowley rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh, giving Hastur a disdainful look, as if he were lounging on the throne behind his desk, and not awkwardly kneeling, barefoot, on the floor of his foyer.  _

_ “It can’t,” Hastur declares, supremely unimpressed. _

_ He closes in on Crowley swiftly, reaching out to place a filthy, damp hand on his shoulder while simultaneously snapping the fingers of his other hand; and before Crowley can even process the impulse to jerk away from the unwanted touch, they’re no longer in his flat, but in a dank, dimly lit room somewhere deep in the bowels of Hell.  _

_ Demons in general aren’t known for their creativity or imagination, so Crowley’s not all that surprised that it looks like it was designed by the Marquis de Sade. Perhaps it was. He’s been a resident for over a hundred years now. Crowley thinks the place could do with a bit more shiny leather, and a bit less cold stone, damp with bonus puddles of indistinguishable fluids. He can feel one such puddle soaking through the denim that covers his knees - slowly, with a thick, viscous sort of slide that makes him feel a little sick.  _

_ Or perhaps that’s because Hastur’s just moved aside, and the demon who’s apparently going to be questioning him has just come into view.  _

_ Caethil, the Inquisitor.  _

_ Crowley’s never had the misfortune of meeting him before - but he knows his face, and he’s heard plenty of stories. Not from those who’ve been required to spend time with Caethil, but from others, speaking in wary whispers of the reasons why those who  _ have _ been to see the Inquisitor… won’t be around for a while… or won’t be in any way coherent or functional, once they are.  _

_ This…  _ cannot possibly _ be good.  _

_ At least the cool, damp stone is soothing against his seared feet.  _

_ He tries not to think about what it’s damp with; thank Whoever, demons aren’t particularly prone to infections. _

_ Caethil eyes Crowley speculatively for a moment before giving Hastur a nod and a dismissive wave. Hastur smirks down at Crowley as he turns and walks out. _

_ “So… what happened?” Caethil’s tone is deceptively calm, mildly curious.  _

_ Crowley rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, as if trying to remember, ticking off points on his fingers as he goes. “Well, I was just about to take a nap after a busy night doing all manner of nasty demon-ing. Hastur unlocked my door, without benefit of a key, I might add... came strolling inside uninvited, laid hands on me - when does  _ he _ get questioned,  _ I’d _ like to know-” _

_ Caethil’s palm comes down across Crowley’s cheek with a loud smack, and Crowley catches himself with one hand on the floor to keep from falling over. His stomach lurches uncomfortably, and he swallows, his throat suddenly dry, heart racing. It’s a stinging warning at worst.  _

_ Caethil is capable of  _ so much _ worse.  _

_ He shakes out his hand a little, as if to ease the sting - but no, that’s not what he’s doing. Hitting Crowley didn’t hurt him in the slightest. No - it’s not so much a shake as an elegant little flourish that results in a thin, sharp blade resting in his hand. He eyes it critically, shakes his head a little, and then his hand again.  _

_ Now there’s a thin wooden rod in place of the blade. Caethil frowns at it thoughtfully as he speaks, his tone level and calm.  _

_ “As you know, our side had two operations set to take place tonight near London,” he explains, tilting his head to examine the short, leather flogger that’s now in his hand, running his fingers along its lashes experimentally.  _

_ “Right.” Crowley nods.  _

_ “One was a bombing, meant to hit a hospital rather than any suitable military target - due to ‘human error’, of course.”  _

_ “Of course,” Crowley echoes, his voice a low croak, his eyes fixed on the Inquisitor’s hand, which is now holding a startlingly human implement - a ruler with a sharp metal edge along one side.  _

_ “The other was a transaction involving some rare books to be handed off to some of our human operatives at a church outside the city. By your adversary, who was then set to be discorporated by said operatives.” Caethil swings the ruler in a controlled arc through the air, a couple of feet away from Crowley, but he still flinches a little. “Would have been a nice break for you for a while, don’t you think? Takes Heaven a long time to issue new bodies.”  _

_ “Almost as long as it takes us,” Crowley remarks, his tone absent and distracted, his gaze caught by the glimmer of silver along the ruler’s edge as it moves.  _

_ Caethil frowns in disapproval, shaking his head a little and banishing the ruler in favor of a heavy steel baton. His opalescent eyes are inquisitive and sharp as he finally looks at Crowley and asks again, softly,  _

_ “What happened?”  _

_ “I-I don’t know what you mean,” Crowley lies with the tone of an admission and an apologetic little grimace. “I was there when the plans were set in place, yeah, but I wasn’t - personally involved in the follow-through. Wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere near.” He swiftly holds up a placating hand and continues, “And I  _ should _ have been! Clearly… something went wrong. And I should have been paying closer attention, better… managing our Earthly operations. Right? Or I wouldn’t be here right now…”  _

_ He swallows slowly, watching warily as the baton in Caethil’s hand becomes a thin, wooden switch. He tries to focus, to  _ think _ , through the panic and the searing pain that has returned with a vengeance. The stone beneath his feet has warmed, now, and is far less soothing than it was a few moments earlier. _

_ “What, uh… what happened, then?” he asks, trying to keep his tone suitably low and chastened. “How’d it end up, while I was off… not paying attention?”  _

_ “Our operatives are dead. Your adversary is not.” Caethil swings the switch, finally smiling a little at the sharp, whistling sound it makes slicing through the air.  _

_ His smile is deeply unsettling. Crowley’s heart races, and the searing throb in his damaged feet keeps time with his racing pulse.  _

_ “But… a church, though,” he points out, hopefully. “Blown to bits, that’s - something, right? Better than a hospital, least from our perspective. So -  _ some _ bad was accomplished tonight, yeah?”  _

_ Caethil’s smile widens, his gaze falling on Crowley once more. “I never said anything about what  _ happened _ to the church.”  _

_ Crowley’s stomach drops.  _

_ “Nowhere near the church, you say,” Caethil muses, tapping the switch into the palm of his free hand, testing it. In a swift movement he lowers the switch, and Crowley’s breath catches in his throat as the demon inquisitor drags it slowly across his bare ankle - just slightly above the highest of the angry red and black streaks. “What happened here, then?”  _

_ Crowley’s lips part, but he has no answer. He can’t tear his gaze away from the weapon that’s edging, teasingly, nearer to his injuries. He reaches out instinctively to grasp the end of it. Caethil waves his hand imperiously, and, well - that’s the end of that.  _

_ Instantly Crowley finds himself on his back on a padded table that wasn’t there before. Its position resembles that of a hospital bed, with the head and feet both elevated. Only, it’s a bit shorter than a hospital bed; Crowley’s feet hang off the end - or they would, if they weren’t strapped tightly to the outer edge of the table on either side.  _

_ “Your adversary, Aziraphale,  _ was _ at the church when it blew up,” Caethil points out. “And yet, somehow… evaded discorporation.” _

_ “I - I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Crowley forces himself to respond, struggling to remain calm, but the words come out hoarse and broken around the panic clawing its way up his throat. His hands clench into helpless fists as he uselessly jerks at the leather bonds that hold him, still and vulnerable, his injuries fully exposed.  _

_ “We’re fairly certain that you would, Crowley,” Caethil counters softly, and Crowley bites back a whimper, shivering as he trails the thin, pointed tip of the switch lightly up Crowley’s singed heel, up the arch of his foot. “You  _ were _ there, after all. And you performed a miracle.”  _

_ “To save the - the  _ books _ ,” Crowley yelps as Caethil presses the tip of the switch hard against the sole of his foot. “Just the books, for - for our cause, that’s all!”  _

_ “ _ No _.” For the first time since he’s spoken at all, Caethil’s quiet voice is hard and angry. “For an angel. Do not lie to me, Crowley, we know  _ exactly  _ where those books currently are.”  _

_ He finally removes the tip of the switch from Crowley’s foot, slowly making his way up to the head of the bed, gazing coolly down at Crowley and meeting his eyes.  _

_ “For an angel,” he repeats with soft disgust. “Remember, Crowley - that that’s why this is happening to you. For the sake of an angel...”  _

_ ************************************************************************************************ _

The angel in question is currently enjoying a quiet evening stroll. 

And Crowley is on his way to surprise him. 

Aziraphale set off alone, that evening, after inviting Crowley along, but Crowley didn’t feel like taking a walk at the time. The sun had nearly set, and the autumn air was too chilly; he much preferred his comfortable spot on their well-worn sofa, in front of the flickering heat of the fire. 

Until Aziraphale had been gone about ten minutes, anyway. Then, restless and bored and a little lonely, Crowley changed his mind and decided to go and find him. He unfurled his midnight wings and took flight, soaring over the city,  _ feeling _ his way toward his angel. He knew he’d be able to catch up with him easily; it’s just a matter of finding him. 

He knows the spots Aziraphale likes in and around the city - several public gardens, the well-kept grounds of the library - though not the library itself, as he much prefers his own collection. But Aziraphale is not in any of those places. Crowley soars through the night sky until he feels his angel’s presence nearby - turning in midair and darting in the direction of the enticing warmth emanating from Aziraphale. 

There he is, he can see him now, in an old, overgrown garden. Crowley makes a sharp dive, grinning a little. He can already imagine Aziraphale’s startled expression, the endearing little sound of surprise he’ll make, when Crowley suddenly appears in front of him, all suave and sexy, leaning against that tree Aziraphale’s standing near, arms crossed, voice pitched low and sultry as he speaks just the most  _ perfect _ line, perfect as if it was  _ made _ for them…

His fantasy comes to a screeching halt as he nears the ground, and notices the large, ornate building to the left of the garden... 

_ Oh,  _ shit _ , no…  _

It’s a church. 

And the garden Aziraphale is so enjoying is a  _ churchyard _ , and Crowley  _ knows _ he can’t be there, can’t even touch down on the holy-adjacent ground without igniting the fiery agony of old injuries. He’s too close now, though, he can’t stop, although he  _ tries _ , tries to correct his course and take flight again - but it’s too late. He careens straight into Aziraphale instead of just past him, bowling him over so that the both of them go tumbling to the ground, rolling a couple of times before coming to a stop in an awkward tangle of limbs and torsos and  _ bright, searing agony  _ that burns away the words from Crowley’s thoughts and leaves him with nothing but  _ pain _ . 

“ _ Crowley _ !” Aziraphale is indignant as he clambers to his feet, dusting off his jacket and trousers. “What the devil are you  _ doing _ ?” 

_ Instantly regretting my decisions, burning in flames, wishing for death… _

Crowley’d say all of that if he could. 

All he’s  _ actually _ doing is lying there helplessly keening, struggling even to  _ breathe _ . He can’t stand, his feet feel as if they’re literally on fire, but  _ every _ place where his body comes into contact with the soft, cool grass of the churchyard feels like flames licking at his flesh. His wings are  _ burning _ , where they drag in the dirt, but he can’t put them away - can’t utilize his powers in any way, here on this nearly consecrated ground. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is alarmed now, kneeling at his side, reaching to pull him up to a sitting position. “Darling, what is it? What’s happened?” 

“I - the…” Crowley struggles to get words out when he can barely breath for the stifling pain. “ _ Ch-church _ …” he finally gasps out. 

Aziraphale understands, eyes widening in horror… then narrowing in anger. “Overzealous clergy,” he mutters under his breath as he lifts Crowley up into his arms. “Who blesses the bloody  _ garden _ ?” 

Crowley would explain. No one’s blessed this churchyard. It’s only  _ close _ to holy ground. Any other demon would be fine. 

No, this particular torment was specially designed  _ just for him _ . 

He can’t explain, though, can’t even  _ speak _ just yet - can only sob with grateful relief as his angel effortlessly takes flight with Crowley held firm and safe in his arms. Crowley feels a little better, the more distance is put between them and the church - though his arms and side and wings are singed, and his  _ feet _ , oh holy or unholy  _ Someone _ , his feet hurt  _ so bad _ , just like the day it happened…

_ Just like he warned you it would… _

“How are you feeling, my love?” Aziraphale asks softly against his ear, not even winded by the exertion of the flight. 

“ _ Hurts _ ,” Crowley says hoarsely.

Aziraphale nods, whispers a blessing under his breath, though Crowley isn’t sure why he’d bother. They both know it’s impossible to miraculously heal a demon of blessed wounds. If they’re of the sort that heal at all, they heal slowly and in the natural way. But Aziraphale speaks soft Enochian words anyway, and while the pain isn’t exactly any  _ less _ , Crowley all of a sudden feels quite warm and sleepy, and somehow… doesn’t  _ care _ so much how bad it hurts. 

“Was gonna surprise you,” he mutters, forlorn. 

“You were?” Aziraphale curls his hand around to brush through Crowley’s hair, his tone tender and sympathetic.. 

Crowley nods. “Was just gonna appear before you, all posed as sexy as anything and just say... ‘ _ Did it hurt _ ?’” 

Aziraphale sucks in his breath through his teeth, making a little clucking sound of clear disapproval. “ _ Really _ , Crowley?” he says dubiously. “When I  _ fell from Heaven _ ?” 

“You’ve heard it?” Crowley sighs, dejected.  _ Bloody well figures _ . 

“A time or two,” Aziraphale admits softly, quiet a moment before he adds, with a furrowed brow of confusion that Crowley can  _ hear _ in his words. “But I didn’t, actually, you know. I took the elevator down, I didn’t exactly…  _ Fall _ from Heaven.” 

“No,  _ I _ did,” Crowley groans, miserable. “ _ Twice. _ ” 

Aziraphale’s lips brush Crowley’s brow tenderly, “Yes, you did, my darling. I’m so sorry.” He’s quiet for a moment before adding, “I’m quite certain you’d have been unspeakably sexy.” 

Crowley snuggles in closer to his angel, holding on tight, ridiculously grateful for his generosity. “Wanted to sweep  _ you _ off  _ your _ feet, angel,” he murmurs. 

“Well, I’d say you did that,” Aziraphale replies, soft and wry. 

  
The next thing Crowley is aware of is that  _ they’re home _ . 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, I've finished this!! It was a lovely prompt that I greatly enjoyed writing <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Much thanks to the lovely and talented Latromi for betaing this second chapter!!!! *hugs* 
> 
> Thanks for reading, let me know what you think!!!

Aziraphale still owns his bookshop - though he no longer lives there, and he hasn’t actually  _ opened _ it in years. It’s always been more his own personal library than anything else - and these days, more than ever. When he wants to spend a quiet evening there amongst his vast collection, it’s always immediately warm and just bright enough to comfortably read, with a ready cup of hot tea or cocoa waiting for him, steaming invitingly next to his chair - and not a trace of said warm, bright invitation extending beyond the darkened windows into the street beyond. 

Five years have passed since the Apocalypse was averted - and nearly four since Crowley sold his flat. It was never really a home to him, not really - just a place that he could pretend was his own - a meagre protection, a flimsy pretense that he had  _ someplace _ that made it a little harder for the menacing claws of Hell to reach him, while he was on his own time, on Earth, between his reluctant reports to his superiors. And, well - they’d several times over ripped through  _ that _ facade and reminded Crowley, brutally and without question, that he was theirs; everything he owned was theirs, and anyplace he thought was a refuge, where he could hide from them... did not exist. 

It exists, now. 

They’ve settled into a cozy little cottage in the country, away from the bustle of the city, away from the dark memories now inexorably connected with their previous locations. Aziraphale’s favorite books are kept here, too often taken down and enjoyed to gather any dust. Crowley’s plants have been relocated, and flourish throughout the comfortably cluttered space. No one dares bother them - but if they did, they’d find it nearly impossible to get inside past the careful warding that guards the cottage against enemy intrusion of any nature. 

This is home… and it’s  _ safe _ . 

A wave of his hand is all Aziraphale needs to open the door, hard enough that it slams into the wall with a loud  _ bang _ . He carries Crowley inside, carefully laying him down on the well-worn sofa near the window. Crowley weakly waves his own hand, and the door closes again, locking with a satisfying  _ click _ . 

And Crowley immediately feels just a little bit better. 

“Let me see, my dear,” Aziraphale urges him gently, kneeling next to the sofa, tenderly running his fingers through Crowley’s hair and brushing it back from his face. “Will you let me see how bad it is?” 

Crowley swallows slowly, unable to quite meet Aziraphale’s warm, concerned gaze. “You can’t heal it, angel,” he reminds him. “Blessed wounds.” 

Aziraphale nods. “Will you let me see anyway?” 

Crowley sighs. Defeated. 

Whether or not he shows Aziraphale his injuries, he knows he’s not getting out of this without an explanation of some kind. 

He wearily lays his head back on the arm of the sofa, listlessly lifting a hand to snap his fingers, and his clothing vanishes. It’s certainly not the first time Aziraphale’s seen him in a state of undress, and Crowley knows it won’t be the last. He closes his eyes and takes comfort in the careful, warm brush of the angel’s fingertips across his skin - releases a shaky breath in relief as he feels the heat of Aziraphale’s grace soaking into the milder burns on his wings, his knees, one spot on his stomach where his shirt was pushed up when he fell. 

Aziraphale can’t  _ heal _ the wounds, exactly - but he  _ can _ dull the pain, for a while. 

Aziraphale’s soft, murmured words go silent, and the heat of his grace fades away - and all that’s left for Crowley to feel is the agonizing burn of his tormented feet, somewhat muted by Aziraphale’s efforts on their way home, but now sharper in the absence of any other pain. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, vaguely questioning. 

When he says nothing else, Crowley lifts his head a little, and finds the angel’s gaze focused on his shoes. 

The only article of clothing he’s still wearing. 

_ Yeah. Yeah,  _ that’s _ not suspicious at all.  _

It’d have been better to let Aziraphale see everything at once and assume that somehow his damaged feet had taken the brunt of the impact. But half-asleep, consumed with pain and exhaustion, Crowley’s subconscious apparently still made a rather half-assed effort to keep the secret he’s been keeping for nigh on a century now. 

_ Stupid bloody subconscious.  _

Crowley ventures a glance up at his angel’s face - eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly. He turns his face away, closing his eyes and burrowing a little deeper into the sofa. Aziraphale’s hand follows his retreat, touching his cheek and gently turning him back to face him again. 

Crowley’s eyes remain stubbornly shut. 

“ _ Crowley _ .” Aziraphale’s voice so, so  _ softly _ stern, wordlessly commanding, and Crowley lets out a shaky little sigh of defeat and reluctantly meets his gaze. “What are you hiding?” His eyes are sad and troubled. “ _ Why... _ are you hiding?” 

What can Crowley say? 

Can’t deny it. Aziraphale’s not stupid, and it’s plain as anything, he  _ has _ been. He could try to explain - how at first he just hadn’t wanted the angel to feel guilt over the level of punishment Crowley had received for saving his books. How he hadn’t even  _ realized _ the extent of that punishment until years after the fact, and his next experience with consecrated ground. How really, he supposes he’s been trying to hide it away from  _ himself _ \- this vicious, undeniable evidence of just how different the two of them really are. 

How very…  _ unworthy _ Crowley is.

_ Literally _ unworthy, to even walk the same  _ ground _ as his angel. 

Crowley doesn’t say anything - just waves his hand wearily in the direction of his leather-clad feet - and the shoes vanish, exposing Crowley’s scars. But they aren’t just scars now, they’re open, weeping  _ wounds _ . Livid burns that cover the soles of his feet, streaks of red and black curling up like sinister flames licking at his ankles. 

Aziraphale draws in a soft, sharp breath, and shifts away from Crowley’s head to get a better look. He reaches out a hand - slowly, cautious, but Crowley’s stomach still lurches with alarm, and his entire body visibly tenses. He knows by the way Aziraphale freezes, looking back at Crowley with concern. 

“Gently, angel,” Crowley whispers, closing his eyes. “ _ Please _ …”

“I only wish to ease your pain, my dear, not cause you more,” Aziraphale assures him, and Crowley feels the soothing brush of his fingertips through his hair. “I won’t even touch. All right?” 

Crowley hesitates just a moment, swallows slowly against the ache in his throat - then looks up at Aziraphale again through hazy eyes and nods, his consent a hoarse, shaky whisper. 

“... A-all right.”

Aziraphale nods once firmly in acceptance, before turning his attention back to Crowley’s feet. He places a gentle, steadying hand on Crowley’s bare calf as he shifts along the floor on his knees. 

“When did your feet even  _ touch _ the churchyard?” he murmurs, a faint teasing note in the words. “It’s not as if you actually  _ stood _ there, even for a…” His words trail off, and Crowley inwardly cringes, biting his lip, feeling the heat of shame rise in his face. Aziraphale’s voice is oddly still and controlled when he speaks again. “This… is  _ not _ just from the churchyard. These scars… Crowley...” The sharp  _ knowing _ in his eyes burns as bright as the overwhelming heat of the wounds, and Crowley closes his eyes again, against Aziraphale’s gentle demand. 

“ _ Tell me _ .” 

************************************************************************************************

_ Caethil sucks in a soft, sympathetic breath as he stands between Crowley’s restrained legs, tracing the very tips of razor-sharp claws over the seared soles of his feet - lightly, almost teasingly, but Crowley bites back a strangled cry of agonized protest, as the gentle contact sets his injuries freshly aflame.  _

_ “This looks… incredibly painful, Crowley,” Caethil observes, dragging the edge of one nail up the arch in a line of fire that makes Crowley want to scream.  _

_ “Not so bad,” he grinds out instead. _

Not so bad? Not so  _ bad,  _ you bloody fucking idiot? Just shut up, shut up, you’re making it worse, stop bloody  _ talking… _

_ “Not so bad,” Caethil echoes with undisguised amusement. “A pity, then. This is the sort of pain that’s wasted if it doesn’t serve to make an impact. To teach a lesson. To be… remembered.”  _

_ The inquisitor presses his thumb hard into the blackened, burning flesh of Crowley’s heel, and he can’t, he  _ can’t _ hold back the choked, desperate sob that bubbles up in his throat.  _

_ “No, stop,” he gasps out, a mindless stream of desperation pouring from his lips. “Please, don’t, I’m sorry, I’ll remember, I swear it, I’ll  _ remember _!” _

_ “For the moment, perhaps,” Caethil acknowledges, finally, mercifully removing his hand from Crowley’s foot and taking a step back. His eyes are cold, knowing. “Until the next time that foolish little principality of yours finds himself in need of a favor.”  _

_ A little flourish of his fingers results in a long, thin bamboo rod that he taps experimentally into his other hand. He jerks it back with a little hiss of pain, holding up the hand to reveal a smoldering black line across his palm, and Crowley’s heart sinks with horror.  _

_ The weapon is as blessed as the consecrated ground that’s already done him so much damage this night.  _

_ Caethil meets his eyes with a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face, his infernal gaze lit with malicious anticipation.  _

_ “For now,” he repeats in soft acknowledgement, “you’re sorry. I believe that you are.”  _

_ He’s quiet for a moment, tracing a fresh line of fire down the sole of Crowley’s foot with the tip of the cane, his mouth twitching slightly in satisfaction at the pleading, anguished moan that escapes Crowley’s lips at the touch. He takes a step away, and draws the cane back, ready and aimed toward the vulnerable, exposed soles of Crowley’s already horribly mangled feet - and Crowley can’t so much as draw breath enough to plead, panic choking him.  _

No, no, he can’t, please, you can’t, please  _ don’t... _

_ “It’s my responsibility…” Caethil continues, mild and reasonable, “... and yes, I’ll admit,  _ sweetest _ pleasure… to ensure that you  _ remain _ sorry. From this moment on. That you  _ never _ forget what happens when you venture too near to what is holy.”  _

_ And he brings the cane down across the soles of Crowley’s feet - relentless, merciless - until Crowley’s desperate cries have faded into silence, his voice too shredded to scream.  _

_ ******************************************************************************************** _

“For...  _ saving me _ .”

Aziraphale’s voice is soft with dismay, and something like wonder… or reverence. 

Crowley can’t quite look at him… isn’t exactly sure why he feels such a heavy sense of  _ shame _ in the face of the angel’s unmasked gratitude. But his face is flushed, and he feels a little sick, and the gentle weight of Aziraphale’s hand, warm and soft against his ankle, makes him want to squirm away. 

He keeps still, and allows Aziraphale to stay where he is, focuses on finishing the explanation he’s owed his angel for far too long. 

“When he was done, he… he placed a curse on the wounds.” 

“An… infernal curse,” Aziraphale echoes, dubious. “On…  _ blessed _ injuries.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, swallowing slowly, staring at the floor just beyond where Aziraphale is still kneeling, watching him far too closely. “Guess he’s one of the few demons out there with a well-developed sense of irony.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. Just waits - a heavy, palpable sort of waiting that makes Crowley uneasy under the intent focus of his attention. 

“The wounds healed,” Crowley explains. “Scarred, yeah. As a - a reminder. But - didn’t hurt anymore. Unless…” He draws in a shaky breath. “Unless I get… anywhere near consecrated ground. Even  _ close _ to it, don’t even have to be  _ on _ it, and… the wounds are as fresh as the day they were made. Have to… heal up again. Naturally. You can’t heal a demon of blessed injuries, angel.” 

Aziraphale already knows this. He doesn’t attempt to argue it. His thumb traces slowly, gently, across the bare skin of Crowley’s ankle. 

“How long did it take? Last time?” he asks softly. 

“Went to bed for a couple of years.” Crowley shrugs. “Not exactly sure. Took a while to fall well and truly asleep,  _ hurt _ so bloody awful, but… when I woke up, they were gone.” 

Aziraphale considers for a moment, before shaking his head, gently squeezing Crowley’s ankle before rising to his feet. 

“No. That’s far too long for you to suffer like this…”

“Could just sleep through it  _ again _ ,” Crowley suggests. 

He startles a little when Aziraphale’s hand cups his cheek, warm and softly, insistently seeking his gaze. When Crowley reluctantly looks up at him, Aziraphale surprises him again with a gentle press of his lips against Crowley’s slack, startled mouth, his words hushed and warm and far more enticing than he has any right to be. 

“That’s far too long for me to miss you.” 

Crowley stares after him as he turns with a purposeful stride and makes his way into the kitchen. He sits forward on the sofa, then glares balefully at his damaged feet for a moment, before helplessly sitting back again. 

“Angel, what are you  _ doing _ ?” he calls out in exasperation. “You  _ can’t heal m _ e…”

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale concedes, reappearing in the doorway, carrying a large basin in both hands, piled high with various supplies. “But I  _ can help _ you, and I defy anyone to tell me I can’t.” He smiles, eyes narrowed in challenge. “Even you, darling.” 

A snap of his fingers shifts the coffee table back out of the way, and he kneels in front of the sofa again, the basin between him and Crowley. He sets out clean, soft towels and various herbs, dried and fragile in small glass vials. Then he holds his hand over the empty basin, and water begin to rise from its clean, dry surface, until the basin is more than half full. 

“No, angel, it’ll hurt,  _ anything _ hurts, I can’t…”

“It will not.” 

Aziraphale is quietly certain, focused on his work as he takes herbs from several vials and crumbles them into the water, whispering over the basin, before gesturing toward it, looking up expectantly at Crowley. The demon draws his feet up closer to him in alarm, although the slight drag against the well-worn upholstery of the sofa is agony. 

“They hurt... but I still think I’d rather  _ keep _ them,” Crowley insists, a slight tremor in his voice as he eyes the water, which has taken on a soft gray color with the herbs infused into it. “Don’t think I’m quite to the point of wanting them  _ burned off _ .” 

“I haven’t  _ blessed _ the water, Crowley,” Aziraphale insists, reproachful. “Please do trust me, my dear.” 

Crowley trusts his angel’s  _ intentions _ , always. He just isn’t exactly certain that Aziraphale knows what he’s doing at the moment - that the medicinal herbs and even the water itself won’t set off a fresh wave of agony the moment his burns come into contact with it. 

But Aziraphale is looking up at him now with wide, imploring eyes, filled with innocent, hopeful expectation. He wants  _ so much  _ to do  _ somethin _ g for Crowley - and Crowley has never possessed the capacity to deny him  _ anything _ he wants. 

He sits up on the sofa, wincing as he swings his legs around, careful not to brush them against the fabric again. He hesitates, feeling a little sick, his heart racing with dread. He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the worst as he carefully lowers his feet into the basin of water. 

The water is  _ warm _ , and even the slightest heat should be agony right now, he knows from painful past experience. 

But it isn’t. 

There’s a faint tingling sensation, not painful or even unpleasant, that fades into numbness, until the burning agony is fully overcome by the softer heat of the water itself. Crowley is surprised, and amazed, and so relieved he nearly cries. 

“What…” he chokes out, blinking back tears. “What did you do?” 

“I merely instructed the water and the healing herbs to absorb as much of the pain as possible,” Aziraphale explains, his hand a soft, pleasant weight against Crowley’s bare thigh. “I may not be able to  _ heal _ you, per se… but there are other sorts of miracles at my disposal.” 

Crowley lays his hand over Aziraphale’s, squeezing it, unable to speak. 

Aziraphale gently lifts Crowley’s hand to his lips, brushing them across his knuckles, closing his eyes in an expression so near to reverence that Crowley fears for his angel’s very  _ soul _ in that moment. Then Aziraphale’s eyes open, shining with tears. 

“My darling, what you’ve endured for me,” he murmurs, shaking his head a little. “Without ever uttering a word of it.” 

Crowley lowers his gaze, feeling that odd sense of shame returning. “Didn’t want you to know. To worry,” he mumbles. “Not like you could fix it.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth quirks upward at the corner, a single brow lifted in silent challenge. 

Crowley frowns. “Angel, what are you going to…?” 

“Do you trust me or don’t you?” Aziraphale cuts him off firmly. 

Crowley stares down at the murky gray water that’s rendered his injuries painless. He meets Aziraphale’s fierce, ice blue gaze and feels his breath stolen away. He nods mutely for a moment before managing to get out a hoarse whisper. 

“Always.” 

Aziraphale nods once, firmly, in confirmation. Then his soft, strong hands encircle Crowley’s ankles, sliding down into the water to rest over the tops of his feet as he closes his eyes and begins to speak softly in Enochian. Crowley can’t help tensing as the water churns around his feet and Aziraphale’s hands - but the pain does not return. 

And then, he stares in wonder as Aziraphale gently lifts one foot from the basin, to reveal that the livid, angry burns have vanished, leaving only the decades-old scars to prove they ever existed. Aziraphale seems utterly unsurprised, as he picks up a soft, white towel and wraps it around Crowley’s foot, resting it upon his folded knees as he gently dries it - taking his time, tender and careful, before setting it on the floor beside the basin and reaching for Crowley’s other foot. 

Crowley stares in astonishment, wondering at the complete absence of pain, as Aziraphale gently lowers Crowley’s foot to rest beside the first one, and then snaps his fingers. Instantly the basin, the wet towels, the bottles of herbs and slight splashes of water on the wood floor vanish. He rises from his knees, resting his hand for a moment on Crowley’s leg as he comes to sit close beside him on the sofa. 

“Angel… angel, how did you…?” Crowley shakes his head a little in disbelief. 

“It’s impossible for an angel to heal blessed wounds,” Aziraphale acknowledges, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s shoulder. “Infernal curses, on the other hand - easily broken.” 

It makes perfect sense. As Aziraphale pointed out, Crowley’s feet never even touched the churchyard; the burns are only there because of the curse placed upon him, to punish him, to remind him of his own unholiness. The minor scorching taken by his wings, his knees, remain - but the decades-old burns to his feet - the source of his greatest agony - have disappeared with the curse that created them. 

He can’t speak, his disbelieving gratitude swelling up until it chokes him, so he just turns his face into his angel’s neck, one trembling hand clenched in the soft fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt, gasping with relief. 

“There, love, I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing a kiss across Crowley’s hairline, raising a hand to cup the back of his head and hold him close. “It’s all over now.” 

_ All over _ \- decades of intermittent agony, the constant reinforcing reminder of his nature, of the vast gulf that separates him from his angel - with a single loving touch and a few whispered words - over and gone. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers, the gentle reproach of his words softened by the soothing, rhythmic brush of his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “Ever since the church? How many times have you suffered like this, when I could have ended it?” 

Crowley settles his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, an arm wrapped around his waist, eyes focused on the floor - still seeing the image of his angel there, kneeling in devotion and carefully tending his wounds. He shakes his head a little, drawing in a shaky sigh. 

“Not many,” he says, and it’s true, isn’t it? What’s a half dozen times in a matter of decades? “I - I didn’t know you could - didn’t think…”

“We could have come up with  _ something _ ,” Aziraphale points out, fingers twisting gently through a curled lock of hair, teasing lightly at Crowley’s scalp. He’s quiet for a moment, before amending his question - just slightly, but meaningfully. “Why  _ wouldn’t  _ you tell me?” 

Crowley’s quiet, glad that his face is angled away from Aziraphale’s gaze, as that creeping sense of shame steals over him again. “Dunno,” he lies softly. 

Aziraphale is silent, but Crowley knows better than to think he’s accepted his not-answer. He keeps touching Crowley’s hair, the fingers of his other hand stroking slow circles up and down Crowley’s back. At last he speaks, and his voice is hushed and thoughtful. 

“I think I do. Would you allow me to speculate?” 

Crowley swallows hard, closing his eyes, and nods. 

“Perhaps you felt it would just remind me of… the lines drawn between us. The places I can go that you cannot… and vice versa. Perhaps you, like myself, would rather forget those lines exist.” 

Crowley considers a moment, then nods again. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice hoarse and thick. 

“But… I  _ cannot  _ forget those lines exist, Crowley.” 

There’s a heaviness to Aziraphale’s words, and Crowley’s chest feels tight and heavy as well. 

“I know,” he whispers, ashamed. 

“I cannot forget those lines, my dear,” Aziraphale repeats, reaching down a hand to tilt Crowley’s face up toward him. “Because you are forever  _ crossing _ them… forever placing yourself in harm’s way… at risk of pain or punishment or even discorporation… for  _ me _ .” 

Crowley can’t quite meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I  _ love  _ you,” is his simple explanation - the only reason he has, or ever will need, for centuries’ worth of risks, of suffering.

“I know you do,” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t have to echo the words for Crowley to  _ feel  _ them,  _ emanating _ from him with fierce intensity. “You’ve proven it, again and again. And that’s why those lines, Crowley… they don’t matter.”

“They do,” Crowley insists, quiet and dark. “I can’t even walk by your side through a garden you enjoy.” He pauses, feeling the heaviness in his chest swell as he goes on. “There are places I can never go with you…”

“And yet  _ you do _ .” 

Aziraphale’s gentle hand at Crowley’s jaw insistently tilts his head up a little more, and Crowley reluctantly meets his eyes. There is such love and gratitude shining from the angel’s face that Crowley nearly  _ has _ to look away - but  _ can’t, _ arrested by its intensity, drawn in, in great swelling waves like the tide. 

“Greater love hath no man,” Aziraphale says softly, “than to lay down his life for his friend. Again and again, you’ve done so, Crowley, or shown yourself willing to. It’s not you that’s unworthy to walk where I do.” 

Crowley blinks, taken aback by the implication. 

“I don’t take lightly what you’ve done for me, my darling. The risks you’ve taken, the things you’ve sacrificed. It’s small sacrifice indeed for me to say that any place you cannot go with me - I’ll gladly forsake.”

Horrified, Crowley shakes his head. “Angel,  _ no _ …”

“If I was going to Fall, I’d have Fallen by now,” Aziraphale points out with a rueful smile. “But Heaven has long since forsaken  _ me _ .” He’s quiet for a moment, before reminding Crowley softly, “Our own side, yes? Our own  _ place _ . We’ll find it… or we’ll  _ make _ it.” 

Crowley nods slowly, feeling the heat of his shame, the quivering edge of his worry softened under the warmth of Aziraphale’s loving reassurance - echoing his own words back to him. 

Heaven can’t punish Aziraphale for loving Crowley, when he doesn’t belong to them anymore. And Crowley doesn’t belong to Hell anymore, either. Their last lingering claim over him has just been washed away, leaving only faint scars to remind him that such a claim once existed - but not anymore. 

They are home. They are safe. They are  _ each other’s _ . 

And all that he’s suffered, all that he’s given, is worth it, for the sake of what they have now. 

For the sake of his angel. 


End file.
